


After All This Time

by undercoverwarlock



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: After Hogwarts, Angst, Fluff and Angst, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Healer Draco Malfoy, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Nightmares, Professor Harry Potter, Tattoos and Scars, fluff and smut and angst, my boys back at it again
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-11
Updated: 2020-10-11
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:35:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26957437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/undercoverwarlock/pseuds/undercoverwarlock
Summary: Draco Malfoy didn't know who he was after the War. Harry wanted to help him find out.For the prompt:Draco *sobbing*: how could you love me?! I’m –Harry: How could I not?
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, Pansy Parkinson/Blaise Zabini
Comments: 8
Kudos: 178





	After All This Time

**Author's Note:**

> Characters belong to JK Rowling.... legally.

April 1999

It had always been difficult to look in the mirror. He never quite understood why he couldn’t stop looking, though. Every chance he got, he’d check – was his hair okay, how was his shirt fitting, his trousers, is that really what he looked like? As a child, it was a simple fascination. That’s me, he’d think, right there. But as he got older, his body stopped fitting right. All gangly limbs and spots, he had bruises and scars from knocking into things, from scratching at pimples, from haphazard attempts to shave. Those were normal teenage boy badges of honour. But Draco wasn’t a normal teenager.

There were other scars. Scars from potions exploding and spells backfiring. Scars from fist fights and from duels. Scars he could hide and scars he could not. Then there were the ones inside of him, all those from lessons he was forced to learn. Those were the easiest to cover up, the hardest to acknowledge.

He was eleven, nursing a grudge and a burning desire to be the son his father wanted.

He was twelve, angry at the world without knowing why.

He was thirteen – the hippogriff scars faded quicker than he thought, but he played up the pain, loving the attention it got him, wishing for someone else to notice and hating himself for it.

He was fourteen, and it was all fun and games until the Dark Lord returned.

He was fifteen, angry and petty and wanting to _hurt_.

He was sixteen – he was starving but couldn’t eat, exhausted but couldn’t sleep, afraid and crying in a girl’s bathroom because he was going to fail. When Potter’s curse hit him, he wondered if he deserved it.

He was seventeen, regretting the Mark on his arm as he watched his world burn.

He was eighteen, and Potter was at his doorstep, asking if he needed anything, anything at all.

He didn’t know what made him do it then. He opened the door a bit wider and let Potter in without a word. The other man was wary and cautious as he entered Draco’s home. It was six months since the trials, since his father was sent to prison and the Manor taken from his family. He knew Potter was the reason he wasn’t in Azkaban with his father, the reason that he was here in their family’s London townhouse with his mother rather than rotting in a jail cell for attempted murder and war crimes. Maybe that was why he led Potter down the narrow hallway to the kitchen. Maybe it was because he wanted to ask Potter why that he gestured for the other man to sit at the breakfast table nestled against the bay windows overlooking the garden, where the first signs of spring were peeking out amongst the frost. Maybe, he thought, as he waved his wand – the wand Potter had returned to him after he was released – to put the kettle on the stove, he just wanted to talk to someone.

“How have you been, Malfoy?” Potter asked to fill the silence. Draco frowned. He arranged the tea things on a tray, brought out the chocolate-covered digestives and milk in a jug, trying to decide between the truth and a lie.

“Fine,” he said at last. He set the tray down on the table and sat across from Potter as they waited for the kettle to boil. Potter was watching him, his green eyes owl-like in their unblinking focus. Draco looked out the window, at the daffodils blooming yellow amongst the frozen grass. Potter followed his gaze. Draco took the chance to glance over at him, to see the Boy Who Lived Twice, the Boy Who Saved His and His Mother’s Life.

Stinging Hex aside, he looked nothing like the scrawny teenager kneeling on the Manor’s drawing room floor almost a year ago. No longer on the run, his cheeks had gone from gaunt and hollow to full and ruddy from the sharp wind outside. His stubble was a dark shadow outlining his strong jaw and full lips. His glasses were still dirty and smudged, his black hair still wild and curly, and the lightning shaped scar still stood out silver against his coffee-coloured skin. But this was no boy across from him anymore.

“How are you?” he forced himself to ask, to be polite. His voice was hoarse from disuse. He spent most days in silence, only ever talking to his mother or whichever friend decided to give him a pity Floo call. Potter rested his chin in his hand as he turned back to Draco. He could just glimpse the pale scrawl on the back of that hand, but he knew immediately what it was, what it said – _I must not tell lies_.

“Good,” Potter replied with a curious smile. “Keeping busy. How is your mother?”

“She’s fine, thank you.”

The kettle whistled. Draco stood and went about filling a teapot, bringing it back to the table to let it brew. The smell of black tea, faint but earthy and floral when caught, hung in the air, mixing with the smell of the herbs drying above the stove, the cigarettes Draco had taken to smoking, and Potter’s cologne, cedar and black pepper. Draco took a deep breath, let it out. Potter watched him all the while, chin in hand, a lazy smile on his lips.

“It’s weird to see you so… domestic,” Potter said at last. Something of his old self sparked at that, ready to retaliate, but Draco was so tired these days, and it took so much energy just for him to smirk and say,

“It’s weird to have company.”

The words, more honest and vulnerable than Draco had intended, made the smile disappear from Potter’s face. His brow furrowed. He set his arm down on the table, leaning forward seriously.

“How are you doing? Really?” he asked, voice low and soft, coaxing. Draco bit his lip. He was not going to fall apart in front of Potter, his arch nemesis, his rival. But was he, now? No, Draco thought, as he stared down at his hands twisting in his lap. Potter had ceased to be his enemy a long time ago. The minute he had lowered his wand from Dumbledore’s chest, the minute he had begun to doubt, the minute he had been forced to torture people he didn’t even know, Draco had stopped seeing Potter as someone to antagonise and hate. What was less clear was how Draco felt about him now.

“It’s… difficult,” he admitted. “I… I don’t know what to do, anymore. Where do I go from here?” He looked up at Potter, as if maybe, maybe this man who had been through so much worse than him, who had survived, would know, would understand. He looked up at Potter in desperate hope and asked, “What do I do now?”

Potter considered him with a sad and thoughtful look. He seemed to think over his response as he poured the tea for both of them, adding far too much milk for himself. “People keep asking me that,” he said, in that same soft and low voice. “For everyone else, I don’t have an answer, because I have no idea what they’ve been through. I’m eighteen, I’m not a prophet or a messiah, I’m just… Harry.” He gave a ghost of a chuckle at his words, as if startled by a memory. “But for you…I think maybe I know a little bit about what you’re going through.” He looked up at Draco, his hands gripping the cup of tea that surely was too hot to hold. “You and I… we need to learn who we want to be, not who we’re expected to be. I’m going back to Hogwarts this fall, finish my last year, get my NEWTs, spend some time figuring out what I actually like besides fighting dark wizards. What do you want to do?”

Draco swallowed. He picked his cup up delicately by the handle and blew on the surface of the tea to cool it. He wondered if Potter noticed how much his hand was shaking.

“I don’t know,” he whispered. “I don’t know if I can go back to Hogwarts after… after everything.”

Potter nodded. He set his cup down. “I can understand that,” he said. He reached out then and took the hand Draco still had in his lap. Draco jumped at the contact, almost spilling tea on himself. Potter’s hand was warm and dry, his palm and fingertips rough and calloused against Draco’s skin. Potter held his hand and gave it a small squeeze. Draco stared at it, disbelieving. He glanced up at Potter, leaning forward in his chair and looking at Draco with his earnest green eyes, and felt like Potter had struck him with lightning. “Try it,” Potter was saying. Draco struggled to listen to him as electricity burned through his veins under the other man’s gaze. “Come back to Hogwarts this next term. If it’s too much, you don’t have to stay. Just… try.”

Draco gave him a thin-lipped smile. He set his cup on the table and nodded.

“Okay,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’ll come.”

Potter beamed. Draco couldn’t help but smile back.

-

October 1999

The first month was rough. The nightmares and panic attacks were getting worse. Draco found himself most nights wandering the corridors, trying not to see an enemy around every darkened corner. He promised himself one term – if he made it through one term, he would stay. If not…

Hogwarts had been closed the previous year for renovations, the first time it had been closed in centuries, since the Black Death outbreak in 1348. This meant, of course, that there was an awkward bureaucratic shuffling around to be done. Ultimately, it was decided that the students would be organised according to year of study rather than house. The first and second years were put in the Hufflepuff dormitories, the third and fourth years in the Slytherin dormitories, fifth and sixth in Ravenclaw, and the seventh and eighth years in Gryffindor. Draco suspected some favouritism was at play. At the same time, it was probably for the best – the dungeons brought back memories, and memories kept him up at night. So he grudgingly settled into Gryffindor tower, even if it meant sleeping in the same dormitory as the Chosen One.

One brisk October evening, sometime around midnight, Draco found himself climbing the steps to the Astronomy tower. Realising where his feet were taking him, he became more convinced that that was exactly where he should go. He could confront at least one of those pesky memories right there and then. But when he got there, he was not the only one.

A slight figure, backlit by the rising moon, leaned over the balustrade, looking out over the grounds. Draco would know those wild curls anywhere. For a moment, Draco stood in the doorway of the stairwell, heart in his throat, looking at the man. He wondered if he should leave, find somewhere else to confront his demons, leave Potter to whatever he was doing. Instead, he cleared his throat to announce his presence.

“I know you’re there, Malfoy,” said Potter without turning around. He held something up that looked in the moonlight like a pamphlet, or thickly folded parchment. “I could see you coming.”

Draco, intrigued, approached Potter, leaning against the balustrade next to him. Potter looked up and gave him a smile, handing over the parchment.

“It’s a map,” Potter explained. And indeed, there was Hogwarts unfolding on the parchment, complete with individual names floating through it, a little Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter standing in the Astronomy Tower. “My dad and his mates made it when they were in school,” Potter continued. He tapped the parchment with his wand and murmured, “Mischief managed,” and the ink sank back into the parchment, leaving it smooth and blank.

“That’s an impressive bit of magic,” said Draco, handing the map back. Harry placed it on top of a folded cloak on the bench behind them. Draco suspected that it wasn’t his school cloak, not the way it shimmered in the silver light.

“They were impressive people,” said Potter, his smile growing fond. “Except maybe Pettigrew.”

“I didn’t – ”

“Oh, yeah. Pettigrew was my parents’ Secret Keeper. He’s the reason they’re dead, not Sirius. No one knew he had switched sides.” Harry’s lips thinned as he stared resolutely over the grounds towards the lake. “Now they’re all gone. Even Pettigrew.”

Draco, not quite knowing what to say, stayed quiet. He turned so that he could face Potter, leaning one arm on the railing of the balustrade. He considered the smaller man. Potter was only about a head shorter than Draco, and though his frame was narrow there was muscle there, a solidness and strength. He was only wearing grey joggers and a green jumper that was slightly too big for him. His sneakers were filthy. Draco found himself oddly self-conscious in the face of such blatant comfort. He was still wearing his uniform, not having changed for bed as he had left the common room for his evening walk. He wished he had filled out like Potter had, so easily fitting into adulthood. But when Potter looked at him like that, he felt a little less uncomfortable in his skin, a little more at home.

“Why are you up here?” asked Draco, knowing the answer but wanting Potter’s voice to fill the silence. Potter shivered a little as a breeze passed through.

“Same as you. Couldn’t sleep,” Potter replied easily. He turned away from Draco, his attention drifting over the grounds again. “I like to come up here. Check the map. Make sure everyone’s okay. I still can’t shake the feeling that something is going to happen, because when have we ever had a normal year at Hogwarts? But….” He trailed off, his fingers tapping against his crossed arms on the railing. “Maybe it’s just in my head,” he murmured, half to himself. “But that doesn’t make it any less real.”

Draco nodded. He knew that feeling intimately. Knew it in his bones. The dread he woke up with each morning, the fear that the Mark would flare up, the certainty that any day now, someone or something would come for them, make them fight for their lives again. But each day went much like the last, and nothing was coming.

“You get the nightmares too,” whispered Draco – not a question, an acknowledgement. Potter nodded. “What are yours like?”

Potter sighed. “Depends,” he said. “Sometimes Voldemort is back and everyone is dead.” His lips quirked up slightly at Draco’s flinch at the Dark Lord’s name, but it was gone so quickly that Draco might have imagined it. “Other times,” he continued, “I’m him. And everyone is dead because of me.”

Draco blinked. In that moment, the comfortable confidence was gone, a mirage blinking out of existence, and there was the little boy Draco had met all those years ago in Madam Malkin’s, small and thin with his owlish green eyes wide behind his broken glasses. He looked up at Draco, and there he was, too, the sure-footed eleven-year-old who had thought he knew how the world worked. He felt them both reach through time and space to grasp each other’s offered hands at last – starting over.

Draco blinked again, and they were standing on the Astronomy Tower, eighteen and exhausted. Potter ran a hand through his hair, the curls growing if possible more wild than before. Draco wondered if his hair was soft and fine, like his, or thick and coarse, tangling around his fingers. He clenched his fists surreptitiously, digging his bitten nails into his palms to ground himself.

“What are yours like?” Potter asked, his voice low and gentle just like it had been when he convinced Draco to come back to Hogwarts. Had he known, then, that they would be here together, unable to sleep but with nowhere else to go? Was that why he had asked, knowing Weasley was staying behind to help his family and that the only other person he knew returning was Granger, so deep in her studies that no one saw her except at mealtimes? Had he asked Draco because he wanted a familiar face, someone else to confide in, someone else who knew what it was like to be afraid of their own mind?

“Depends,” Draco said, echoing Potter, who smirked. Draco’s lips twitched, maybe a smile. “Some nights, he’s killing me. Other nights, he’s killing everyone I love. And sometimes… sometimes he’s asking me to kill them.” He looked away, frowning at his arm on the balustrade. “Dumbledore offered me a way out, right here,” he whispered. “And Snape killed him. He did what I couldn’t. He killed my last chance to escape.” He could feel Potter’s gaze on him, almost as if he had reached out and put his hand on Draco’s shoulder. His gut twisted, wanting that simple reassuring touch, yearning for it. He pressed his nails harder against his palms, his knuckles growing white. “Stupid, isn’t it?” he said with a mirthless laugh. “To still be thinking about it, after all this time?”

When he looked up, Potter’s face was soft in its understanding. Tears pricked at Draco’s eyes, and he turned away to hide them, trying desperately to push them away. But then he felt Potter’s hand on his shoulder, and he couldn’t stifle the gasp that escaped him as his touch clicked something inside of him into place. _There_ , a voice in his head whispered. _There it is_.

Potter made him turn back around to face him, made him look him in the eye. “I was there, Draco,” he said. Draco’s stomach clenched. “I was there, that night. Underneath the Cloak.”

“W-what?”

“Dumbledore… he and I were trying to find one of Voldemort’s Horcruxes, but we had failed, and he was weak… When he heard you coming, he made me put on the Cloak and cast a Full Body Bind on me. I saw everything, and I could do nothing to stop it.” Tears were slipping down Potter’s cheeks as he took in a shaking breath. “I’m sorry, Draco. I’m sorry for everything.”

“You were…You saw?”

Potter nodded. Only then did Draco realise he was crying too.

“I’m sorry,” Potter whispered again, his voice thick with his tears. Draco shook his head.

“No,” he choked out. “I’m the one who should be apologising.”

Potter let out a watery laugh. “Go on, then. I don’t think I’ve ever heard you apologise about anything before.”

Draco rubbed at his eyes with a small chuckle, trying to stop the tears flooding down his cheeks. “Malfoys don’t apologise,” he mumbled. He lowered his hand. Had Potter been that close before? His breath stuttered in his chest as his shaky smile faltered.

“Go on, then,” Potter whispered, daring him with his eyes, still glittering with unshed tears. A shiver ran down Draco’s spine, and it wasn’t from the chill. Distantly, he heard the clock chime one.

“I’m sorry,” he breathed. The words hung in the air between them, tangible. “I’m so sorry.”

Potter blinked and stepped back. Draco let out the breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding. Potter nodded to himself, looking away, back towards the stairwell.

“We should go back to the dormitory,” he said at last, gesturing at the stairs. “Try to get some sleep.”

Draco tried to school his features to hide the disappointment on his face. Not that Potter was looking at him, but just in case. He nodded, and mumbled, “Yeah, right, you’re right.” Without another word, they walked back together towards Gryffindor Tower. And if their shoulders brushed from time to time, if their fingers reached but never touched, no one would know.

-

November 1999

They soon fell into a pattern. Draco would wait in the common room in front of the fire until Potter – “Harry, Jesus,” he corrected Draco, “we don’t need to keep calling each other by our family names” – Harry would inevitably come down, wearing his jogger and jumper and filthy sneakers.

“Don’t you have other shoes?” Draco asked one night. Harry shrugged.

“Just dress shoes from fourth year,” he said with a smug smile, just to watch Draco roll his eyes in exasperation and lecture him on “proper attire.”

They would sneak out under the Cloak, a novelty that still hadn’t worn off for Draco – “They really can’t see us?” he whispered after they passed a patrolling professor who, before, Draco would have had to hide from. Not that the professors were as fussy about students being out of bed these days, but old habits die hard. Harry had laughed at Draco’s child-like wonderment, all warm so close to him that Draco couldn’t hide the blush that spread across his cheeks.

Harry showed Draco all the secret passageways, all of his favourite nooks and corners, and Draco did the same. They explored the castle together, rediscovered their home together. Some nights Harry would drag him down to the kitchens, insisting that Draco wasn’t eating enough. They would get sandwiches and treats from the always obliging house elves before setting off on their nightly exploration, having themselves a little picnic in abandoned classrooms or forgotten towers. Then there were nights like tonight, when Harry suddenly turned to him under the Cloak and asked, “Have you seen the greenhouses at night?”

Draco shook his head, distracted by how close Harry’s face was to his as he held up the Cloak a bit with one hand. Harry grinned and grabbed his hand, half-running and half-dragging Draco down the empty corridors. Their hushed laughter woke some of the portraits, who grumbled about new, inconsiderate ghosts. Draco didn’t care. Harry’s hand was just like he remembered back in his family’s kitchen, warm and calloused and perfect. His heart raced with their feet as they snuck out the castle doors into the grounds, the frost crunching beneath them as they ran.

Harry tugged him along, whispering, “Come on, come on, come on!” as he pulled him into one of the greenhouses. They cast off the cloak and Harry, pulling his hand from Draco’s, folded the cloak over his arm. Draco’s heart only had a moment to protest before Harry’s hand was back in his, as if it was only natural.

Harry showed him the plants that flowered at night, the ones that glowed and glittered in the dark, the vines that waved at them from their pots like old friends. The air in the greenhouse was warm like summer and smelled of earth and secret blooms. Here, surrounded by greenery and lit by fluorescent leaves, Draco felt transported to some faerie kingdom, where the world outside would continue to turn without them if they just stayed here, hidden away. He looked away from one of the hanging pots of sleepy Umbrella Plants when Harry gave his hand a squeeze. This close, he could feel the heat radiating from Harry’s body as the other man leaned in and asked, “You okay?”

Draco smiled tentative and slow. “Never better,” he replied, and was surprised to find he meant it. Harry beamed up at him. Draco’s heart contracted, then expanded to fill his chest, again and again, like the tide pulling a wave in and out against the rocky shores of his ribs. He raised a hand unconsciously to push some of the curls out of Harry’s face. Harry blinked. Draco’s hand froze, but just as he moved to pull away, to pretend like nothing had happened, Harry’s other hand reached up and tangled with Draco’s, bringing it to his cheek. Draco gasped. When Harry turned his head to press a small kiss to Draco’s palm, he stopped breathing altogether.

“This okay?” Harry murmured against his wrist, his eyes watching Draco’s face. Draco nodded mutely. Harry kissed the inside of his wrist above his racing pulse, and Draco drew impossibly closer. Harry ducked his head, suddenly shy. Draco pressed his chin up with his fingertips. He searched Harry’s face for any sign that this was a joke, that Harry didn’t want this, that this was a horrible mistake – there was nothing, just green eyes wide behind wire-rimmed glasses. Harry’s gaze flickered between Draco’s eyes and his mouth, and he licked his own lips quickly, unaware of the tsunami threatening inside Draco’s chest. Draco, on the other hand, had had enough.

He leaned down and brushed a chaste kiss across Harry’s lips. Harry let go of his hands, brought his own up around Draco’s neck, pulling him closer as he kissed him back. Never let it be said that Harry took any half-measures – when he wanted something, he took it all. His stubble was rough against Draco’s skin, and Draco gasped, wanting more. He gripped Harry’s waist, his hips, tangled his hand in the black curls that had tantalised him for so long. Harry’s hair was thick and coarse and everything Draco had dreamed. As their kiss deepened, tongues exploring the taste of each other’s mouths, Draco wondered absently if this was what he had been looking for all along, here in Harry’s arms.

-

January 2000

Draco returned to Hogwarts after the Christmas holidays. When Harry had owled him on New Year’s Eve, as he had done throughout the break, he had scribbled a postscript – _will you be coming back to Hogwarts? Will I see you again?_ And Draco replied, just as he had to every one of Harry’s letter – _Yes. Yes._

When Draco stepped out of the fireplace in the Great Hall, which had been temporarily set up to Floo students in and out for the holidays, Harry was there. He grinned as Harry all but jumped into his arms, and even though they got a few odd looks from the other students, Draco found he didn’t care. He buried his face in Harry’s curls and breathed in the smell of him, of cedar and black pepper.

“Missed you,” Harry mumbled into Draco’s chest. Draco squeezed him a little tighter.

“Missed you, too,” he murmured.

They walked to the Gryffindor common room hand in hand, Harry chattering on about his holiday with the Weasleys at the Burrow while Draco listened with an endearing smile. His smile faltered when they stepped through the portrait hole and his gaze fell on Granger sitting in a chair by the fire, nose already buried in a book. She looked up when she heard Harry, mouth open to greet him, and froze when she saw them. She raised her eyebrows, closing her mouth when she realised it was still hanging open.

“Oh,” she said. Harry looked sheepishly at her, half-turning into Draco as if to hide from her surprise. “ _Oh_ ,” she said again, closing her book. “You were _serious_.”

“You thought I was joking?” Harry spluttered. “Of course I was serious! Why would I joke about this?”

“I… well… hm.” Hermione stood up, her book forgotten on the chair. Her lips were pressed into a thin line as she looked from Harry, red-faced and confused, to Draco, who swallowed hard and looked everywhere but at her. “I hate to say it, Harry,” she said at last. “But you have to be kidding. Draco Malfoy? Of all people?” She gestured at him as if he weren’t standing in front of her. Draco blushed furiously and opened his mouth to protest, to defend himself, only to realise that he agreed with her. He pulled himself away from Harry. Harry only looked more confused, his brow furrowing as he tried again to reach for Draco. But Draco shook his head.

“No,” he said softly. “She’s right. I don’t deserve you.”

“Draco – wait, don’t – ”

But Draco had already turned away. He forced himself not to run up the stairs to the boy’s dormitories, not to slam the door like a petulant five-year-old. No one else was up there yet, but he still clambered into his four poster and drew the curtains tight around the bed, casting a hurried _Muffliato_ to hide the sobs threatening to tear their way out of his chest. He cursed at himself. He brought his knees into his chest as he sat there, burying his face against them as he wept. Of course, Granger was right. Harry couldn’t possibly, shouldn’t want him, of all people. He scratched at his Mark beneath his shirt sleeve, digging into the skin as much as he could. Finally, fed up, he unbuttoned his cuff to push the sleeve up, to expose the ugly black tattoo writhing beneath the pale skin of his forearm. He sobbed as his nails scrabbled at it, tearing, scratching, desperate. He wanted it gone, wanted to pull it out of him, to erase all that it meant and all the memories that swirled amongst the ink. He reached for his wand, intending to cut, to tear, to burn it out if that was what it took.

The curtains were yanked back. Draco looked up, startled, wand raised. Harry stood there, chest heaving, out of breath. He mouthed, “Can you hear me?” Draco shook his head and lowered the charm, only to raise it again when Harry had climbed onto the bed across from him. Harry’s cheeks were flushed and there were tears in his eyes again, but he grew pale at the sight of Draco’s arm. Draco wasn’t sure if it was the sight of the Mark or the red, raw skin that made Harry blanche. Either way, he moved to pull his sleeve back up to hide it all. Harry was too fast, though. He caught Draco’s wrist and forced his arm up, to bare the angry skin to the light. With his other hand, he traced trembling fingertips up and down the Mark, the ridges left by Draco’s ragged nails. Draco inhaled with a hiss at his cool touch. Still Harry did not let go.

“I thought it would go away when he – ”

“No,” Draco murmured, cutting him off. “It didn’t.”

Harry frowned. He pressed a little more firmly against the scratch marks. “Why?” he whispered. Draco swallowed.

“It was expected of me, I thought… He was going to kill my mother if I didn’t… I thought I wanted it at the time, but now….”

“I wasn’t talking about the Mark, Draco.”

Draco looked up at Harry. Harry’s gaze was gentle, but the set of his jaw was firm. He tapped the marks with two fingers. It was getting hard to breathe around the lump in Draco’s throat.

“I want it gone,” Draco breathed. Harry’s eyes widened, but he stayed silent. Draco swallowed again before continuing in a choked voice, “I just… Granger’s right. All this does is remind me of everything I used to be, and you deserve better than this, than me. How could you love me? I – ”

Harry’s grip tightened on his wrist, cutting him off. The tears shone in his eyes, emerald sparkling behind the glasses.

“How could I not?” he whispered.

-

March 2010

In the end, they were both too broken, then, to stay together. Harry had tried, but Draco pushed him away, until their only interactions were longing glances unseen by the other, shoulders brushing in the corridors, murmured apologies over small accidents that meant more than they were. It was better that way, Draco had convinced himself. When the exams were over, Draco applied to be a Healer’s apprentice, and Harry stayed at Hogwarts to teach at McGonagall’s behest.

The years passed. From time to time, Harry would send him an owl, but his letters went unanswered. Draco read them over and over until he had them memorised, repeating Harry’s words to himself during long shifts at the hospital until their meanings unhinged. It took years, but Draco found himself in his work. He was good at Healing. He helped people, and in doing so discovered that he enjoyed it. In the end, he got a position as a Healer at St. Mungo’s working the Accidents and Emergencies room. The hours were long, the pay decent. He had the townhouse to himself since his mother had left to live with family in France, and he was happy alone. He was. After all, if you repeat a lie often enough, it becomes the truth.

Spring was just beginning. The daffodils had emerged but not yet bloomed, and each sunrise grew a little warmer. As much as Draco loved this time of year, he dreaded the coming of summer. Cases would increase as people flocked to London for the summer holidays, but worse than that, the heat would make wearing long sleeves unbearable.

Pansy, who had become a Healer with Draco but specialised in permanent spell damage, had asked him during one of their first summers in the apprenticeship program why he never wore short sleeved shirts. He hadn’t been able to tell her then. It was not, in fact, until they had been working together for three years that he showed her the Mark and asked if she could remove it. She had grown quiet and sad as she examined his forearm, covered not only in the Mark but thin silvery scars, some long and some small. She never asked about those. He never told her. In the end, she had not been able to remove the Mark. It seemed no one could. The Dark Lord had made sure of that.

Pansy did come with him to a Muggle tattoo parlour to get the Mark and scars covered up, however. He had tried to go to a wizarding tattoo artist who operated out of his SoHo loft, but the man had turned him away the minute he saw the Mark. The Muggle artist, on the other hand, didn’t care, didn’t know what it meant. She and Draco worked on a design together. He figured out how to pay her in Muggle money and arranged a date. When the day came, he squeezed Pansy’s hand so tight during it that he was vaguely worried he might break it. For her part, she never complained, just squeezed back.

He covered the Mark in flowers. Narcissus for his mother, but also irises for hope and lilies for rebirth. He loved the tattoo. He had gotten choked up when the artist had finished and had broken down in tears when he washed it for the first time. Yet still, he hated wearing short sleeves, hated the long summer months, hated exposing his pale skin covered in all its scars. Pansy stopped asking why.

She called him up through his kitchen fire one evening after a particularly gruelling shift. “Draco,” she said by way of greeting. He nodded back and continued chopping vegetables.

“Pansy,” he replied.

“Come out with me and Blaise tonight,” she said. Draco frowned and paused. The idea of being a third wheel to Pansy and Blaise did not sound particularly fun.

“Why?” he asked warily. “I’m making dinner.”

“After dinner. Come get a drink with us.”

“What are you up to?” He shot her a suspicious look, lost somewhat since she couldn’t see much of him from the fire.

“Ugh, fine, I’ll tell you. There’s a Hogwarts reunion tonight. Everyone from our year is going to be there.”

Draco froze mid-chop.

“That’s ridiculous,” he managed to say at last. He heard Pansy sigh.

“I knew you would say that, which was why I wasn’t going to tell you. But come on, Draco, it’ll be fun, I promise.”

“Really?” Draco sneered, resuming chopping up the carrot on the cutting board. “You really think people will like a former Death Eater and the girl who wanted to turn Potter over to the Dark Lord showing up at their reunion party?”

He could almost hear Pansy’s eye roll.

“Well, unlike you, I’ve made amends with people. Hermione and I get coffee sometimes and whinge about our husbands.” She and Hermione had reconciled during their eighth year, both of them spending more time in the library studying than anywhere else, Hermione for her career in Magical Law and Pansy for the Healing apprenticeship. “Seriously, Draco, it’s not that big a deal anymore. It’s been ten years.”

Draco added the chopped carrot to the pan, pushing it around with a spoon to sauté with the onions and garlic. When he finally turned around, he let out a long begrudging sigh.

“Fine. I’ll come.”

“Yay!”

“… but only for one drink. Then I have to get back. I’ve had a long shift and tomorrow’s my only day off this week. I plan on sleeping through most of it. So, when is this reunion?”

“Eight o’clock at the Drowned Siren.”

Draco checked the clock above the mantle. 7:30.

He swore.

-

Draco pushed open the door to the pub at half past eight. The place had apparently been rented out for the event, the narrow Tudor-era building packed with his former classmates, half of which he barely recognised. The pub looked over the Thames, a balcony in the back with a set of steps leading down to the shoreline. Pansy saw him from her perch at the bar next to Blaise and waved him over. Draco rolled his shoulders back with a deep breath. One drink. He could do this.

Pansy hugged him tight when he reached them. “I’m so glad you came!” she squealed. Draco smiled and hugged her back before pulling himself away to say hello to Blaise.

“I’m not going to stay long,” Draco reminded Pansy, “I’m just here for – ”

“One drink, I know,” Pansy interrupted. “Go on then, order your drink, and we’ll go mingle.”

Draco groaned at the prospect. Blaise grinned, apparently sharing the sentiment, but Pansy nudged them both in the ribs and told them to grow up and have fun, which sounded like an oxymoron to Draco. Chuckling, he turned to the bartender to order his whiskey. He blushed slightly when he recognised the bartender, a burly man with a well-trimmed beard, from a one night stand he’d had about six months back. The bartender winked at him but said nothing as he poured him two fingers of whiskey.

“For you, no charge,” he rumbled with a sly smile when Draco tried to pay. Draco stammered, flushing scarlet, and quickly turned away, grabbing Pansy’s wrist and pulling her into the crowd with him. Once he was out of the bartender’s eyesight, he downed half his drink in one go. Pansy raised her eyebrows at him.

“What was that?” she asked, shouting over the din of the pub. They sidestepped a particularly rambunctious group of Hufflepuffs, edging towards the balcony with Blaise at their heels.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Draco shouted back. “Come on, let’s mingle so I can get this over with.”

Pansy had been right, it seemed. No one cared that he was there. Or, rather, no one cared that a former Death Eater was crashing their lovely reunion. Most gave him a polite nod, others waved. The other Slytherins quickly flocked to them, and soon Draco found himself stuck in a booth as another round was ordered while they chatted about life after Hogwarts. Draco, squeezed between Pansy and Blaise, just wanted to go home. He sipped at his second whiskey, exhausted by the noise and incessant chatter. Pansy kept nudging him, trying to get him to engage, but each time Draco would just respond curtly to whatever question was asked of him before returning to staring at his drink. He wondered if it was possible to Apparate without moving. So far, no luck.

“Draco?”

His head snapped up. He’d know that voice anywhere. It cut through the din like a clap of thunder.

Harry stood at the end of the table, looking into the booth. He held a bottle of beer loosely in one hand. His smile was wide and his green eyes flashed behind his glasses. His hair, a little shorter than it was ten years ago, was still a tangled mess. Draco hated that he knew what it was like to run his hands through that hair, what sound he could coax from Harry if he pulled at it just a bit. He looked him up and down, taking in the leather jacket on his arm, the pale blue shirt with the first two buttons undone, the charcoal grey trousers that fit him so well. Draco wondered if he still wore the same sneakers. Pansy looked from Draco to Harry and back, an evil smile at the corner of her mouth.

“Blaise, dear, let Draco out, there’s someone he wants to see.”

Draco widened his eyes at her, shook his head minutely, trying to convince her that that was a bad idea. But she was already pushing him out of the booth, and Blaise was giving him a hand to help him scoot out and stand. He brushed himself off as he stood in front of Harry.

“Hello, Potter,” he said as calmly as he could. “You’ve been well, I trust?”

Harry chuckled and shook his head at Draco. “I’ve been fine,” he said, raising his voice unnecessarily to be heard. Didn’t he know that Draco could hear him anywhere? “You?”

Draco nodded, mumbled, “Fine, yeah.” Harry considered him for a moment, then leaned forward, pressing two fingers to the inside of Draco’s wrist and brushing his lips against the shell of Draco’s ear.

“Want to talk? Outside?” he murmured. Draco tried to swallow the shiver that ran through him, to fight the urge to turn his head and catch those lips with his. He managed to nod again, and stepped back, gesturing for Harry to lead the way. Harry smirked, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

They wove their way through the crowd. They squeezed through the group of smokers out on the balcony and, stepping carefully over the chain barring the stairs, made their way down to the shore. There, on the grimy beach, the silence rang in their ears as they stood alone, watching the storm-coloured waters of the Thames wash in and out. Neither spoke for a long while. Then, Harry turned to him.

“You never answered my letters.”

Draco scuffed his shoe in the gravelly sand, his hands in his pockets. “No,” he said. “I didn’t.”

“Why?” Harry pressed. Draco bit his lip. It was supposed to be one drink, say hello to a few school friends, and leave. He didn’t want to be having this conversation, not right now, not ever. He kicked at a rock, watched it scatter into the lapping waves.

“Never knew what to say,” he mumbled. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Harry scoff and shake his head.

“Jesus, you could have at least told me you were okay! It’s been ten bloody years, Draco!”

“So what?” Draco snapped, turning on Harry. “Moved on, haven’t you?”

Harry, who had initially stepped back in surprise, now moved forward, pressing into Draco’s personal space, his eyes dark as he looked up into his face. “Have you?” he demanded, his voice rough.

Draco opened his mouth, closed it again. He wanted to say that he had. He’d had plenty of one night stands – the bartender inside could attest to that – but in reality they were drunken fumbles, scratching an itch. There hadn’t been anything real for so long. Not since…

Harry smirked. “Thought not,” he said. He stepped back a fraction just to shrug on his leather jacket against the wind coming off the water. Draco looked away, biting his lip furiously. He should leave, he knew it, but his body betrayed him, stayed frozen in place, breathing in the familiar smell of cedar and black pepper. He closed his eyes, the muscle in his jaw working as he clenched his teeth.

“Why then?” he heard Harry ask, in that sweet low tone of his. “Why stay away for so long?”

He felt Harry wrap his calloused fingers around his wrist, the pads of his fingertips brushing against his pulse point. Draco let out a shuddering breath. Gods, it would be so easy to just give in to that touch. So why didn’t he?

He opened his eyes. Harry was so close, he could see the faint laugh lines beginning to form at the corners of his eyes, of his mouth. Each breath was filled with cedar and black pepper and cigarette smoke from the balcony above. Harry’s upturned face was lit by the market lights strung up on the railing, softly glowing like a dying sun.

“It was so easy,” Draco began, choosing his words with care, “to lose myself in you. But I needed to figure out who I was on my own, first. Without my parents, without the war, without you.”

Harry’s eyes searched his face. “Have you?” he asked. Draco thought about it. His hand, almost on its own, reached up to brush his fingertips along the line of one of Harry’s cheek bones, the stubbled sweep of his jaw. Harry blinked at him slowly, leaning almost imperceptibly into the touch. The loose grip he had on Draco’s wrist tightened ever so slightly.

“I think I have,” Draco murmured. “And my place is here. As a Healer.”

“Oh.”

Harry stepped back, letting go of Draco’s wrist. But Draco pulled him back with a hand on the nape of his neck. Harry, confused, frowned at him.

“But I still want you,” Draco whispered. Harry gasped. His eyes fell to Draco’s lips, a question. Draco gave him his answer.

As their lips met, Draco was pretty sure he could hear murmurs from the balcony above. For once, Draco didn’t care. It had been ten years since he’d known Harry’s touch, tasted him sweet on his tongue. Their kiss deepened, Harry’s hands at his hips, running up his back, pulling him closer, ever closer. Draco buried his hand in Harry’s curls, pulling just a little, just to hear that quiet moan. His other arm wrapped around Harry’s waist, holding him there, there.

When they came up for air, it was to wolf whistles and cheers. Harry leaned his forehead against Draco’s shoulder with a breathless laugh. Draco looked up, and there was Pansy and Blaise, cheering them on with cheeky grins. Next to them was Hermione, her belly swollen with her first child, Ron beside her with his arm around her shoulders. She gave Draco a thumbs up.

“You still live at the townhouse?” Harry asked, his lips brushing Draco’s ear. Draco nodded. He turned and pressed a kiss to Harry’s temple. “Take me there,” Harry murmured. “Please.”

Without another word, Harry wrapped in his arms, they Apparated into the gathering night.

-

They landed on Draco’s doorstep. Draco steadied Harry, who had landed somewhat evenly, as he opened the door for them. Even before the door closed behind them, Harry was pulling him in for another kiss. A laugh bubbled up out of Draco’s chest. Gods, when was the last time he laughed like that?

“Eager, are we?” he teased, even as Harry nipped and sucked love bites down his neck, making Draco’s fingers stutter and scrabble against him. He crowded Draco against the wall of the entryway, and Draco pulled him closer with a hand to his low back, dipping beneath the leather jacket. Harry hissed at Draco’s cold fingers against the warmth of his body. Draco caught his lips again, fingers tangling in Harry’s hair, wanting to taste him again. Harry, not to be undone, rolled his hips against Draco’s, both gasping into each other’s mouths.

“I want you,” Draco babbled, pushing Harry’s jacket off and attacking the buttons on his shirt with shaking fingers. “I want you, I want you, I want you.”

Harry swore under his breath. He pushed his hands under Draco’s navy blue jumper, calloused palms rubbing up Draco’s stomach and sides. “Bed,” he growled against Draco’s bruised and bitten lips. “Now.”

Draco nodded. He let Harry step away enough for him to take hold of his hand and, with a gleeful smile, led him up the stairs towards the bedroom. The stairs, old and rickety, squeaked as they half-ran up them. Harry caught him at the landing, wrapping his arms around his waist and pressing open-mouthed kisses over the love-bites blooming on Draco’s neck as his hands wandered towards the waistband of Draco’s trousers. Draco, biting back the moans that threatened to escape him, pulled away, taking both of Harry’s hands in his to pull him down the hall. Harry, grinning mischievously, only used their joined hands to push Draco towards one of the hallway walls, pinning him there with his thigh between Draco’s legs. Draco could not stifle his moan that time. He let himself rock up against Harry’s thigh for a moment, leaned his head back as Harry mouthed along his jaw. Then he pushed Harry back again with a winded chuckle.

“We’re not going to make it to the bed at this rate,” he pointed out. Harry shrugged. Draco let out a theatrical gasp. “But it was your idea!”

“True,” Harry acknowledged, still grinning. “Best get a move on, then.”

“You…”

But Harry didn’t let him finish. Draco laughed into their kiss, let it get messy and uncoordinated.

“For fuck’s sake, Potter!”

Harry inevitably gave in and let Draco haul him the last few feet to the bedroom. He took a moment to look around – “Nice room,” he said, and Draco shrugged, more intent on pulling him towards the queen-sized bed in the middle of the room. The room was spacious enough, with tall ceilings and large windows that overlooked the narrow back garden, nothing like the Manor’s grounds but enough. But Draco hadn’t bothered to decorate it much, so the room had a strangely empty feel to it, like a hotel. Not that he was thinking about décor much at the moment.

Harry crowded Draco up against the bed, pushing him down onto it only to climb on top. He couldn’t stop grinning, and neither could Draco. This was a night ten years in the making, after all.

Their mouths and hands explored, remembered, rediscovered. Harry forgot how ticklish Draco was, and Draco remembered how touch-starved Harry could be, how desperately he wanted to mould himself to Draco, skin to skin. He let Draco sit up just enough to pull off his jumper and tear off his own shirt, before immediately pressing him back into the mattress. Draco leaned his head back with a contented sigh as Harry began kissing his way down Draco’s chest, his fingertips skipping slightly over the long, thin scars scattered across the pale skin. He could feel Harry hesitate when he saw them, warm breath huffing against his chest.

“It’s fine,” Draco murmured, “it’s fine, just, please….” He didn’t know what he wanted from Harry, just knew that if Harry asked about them in that moment, it would be over. Harry seemed to understand. He rested his forehead against Draco’s chest, the only acknowledgement Draco needed, that later, later they would talk, but not now, please not now.

Harry’s movements slowed, his touches growing tender and gentle as he continued to make his way down Draco’s body. He nosed a bit around Draco’s stomach, just to get Draco to giggle from the tickling. In the dim light, he could just see Harry’s lips quirk into a smile, his glasses fogged up a bit and skewed. Draco sat up, leaning back on his elbows, to watch as Harry trailed kisses along the inside of his hip, towards the waistband of his jeans. Harry’s hand paused, wavering above the button of his jeans, and he glanced up again, eyebrows raised. Draco bit his lip and nodded.

Harry undid the fastening of Draco’s jeans so slowly, fingers brushing his erection straining through his pants, that Draco groaned, in pleasure or in exasperation he didn’t know.

“Hurry up, Potter,” he growled. Harry’s smile broadened. Instead of speeding up, he went almost impossibly slower, pulling Draco’s jeans down inch by inch. “Potter,” Draco warned. Harry just grinned. Draco kicked his legs, trying to get the jeans off faster. Harry allowed this with a small shake of his head, but when he settled himself between Draco’s legs, Draco knew his attempt to speed things along had come at a price. Harry kissed up one thigh, one hand brushing up the other side. Draco squirmed as his mouth neared his crotch, the hand on the other leg rubbing circles into his inner thigh. “Gods, please,” he whined, even as Harry pulled away to turn his attention to the skin above the waistband. He could feel Harry’s smile as his lips trailed along the elastic, could feel his breath ghosting over his cock, and it was driving him nuts. “Please just, Merlin, do something, fuck, enough teasing…”

Harry glanced up, one eyebrow raised. “Oh really?” he asked, his voice rough and husky from arousal sending shivers down Draco’s spine. “What do you want, then?”

“Fuck, anything.”

“My hand?” Harry’s hand brushed over Draco’s eager cock. Draco whimpered. “My mouth?” He turned and trailed his lips along the line of his erection. A desperate sob escaped Draco’s throat.

“Anything, please, anything.”

“Look at you,” Harry murmured, the words vibrating against Draco’s cock, already dampening his pants with precome just from Harry’s teasing. “Begging for me. Who would have known?”

“Oh Circe, do something or I swear I will….”

Harry chuckled. “That’s more like you.” Without another word, he pulled Draco’s pants down and off, tossing them to the side before crawling back, his pupils blown wide with lust behind his glasses. Draco barely had time to gasp before Harry took his cock in his calloused hand. He licked a broad stripe up the underside, making Draco moan, before taking him into his mouth and beginning to bob up and down, taking more of him in each time. Draco tried not to buck up into his mouth, even as he tangled a hand in Harry’s curls to slow him down. Harry moaned his approval, sending vibrations down his length. His hand around the base of Draco’s cock moved lower to massage his balls. Draco could not stop his hips from snapping up at that, and when his dick hit the back of Harry’s throat, making him gag, Draco knew he wouldn’t last much longer.

“Fuck, I’m going to….”

He didn’t finish his warning in time. Harry swallowed him down before pulling off and sitting back on his heels. Only then did Draco notice him palming the bulge in his own trousers. Draco, caught in the afterglow, moved as if his limbs were caught in syrup, almost drunkenly. He sat up and undid the fastenings on Harry’s trousers even as he kissed Harry messily on the mouth, tasting himself on Harry’s tongue. His hand dove in and pulled Harry’s cock out, stroking it hard and fast until Harry came, moaning into Draco’s open mouth.

They both collapsed on top of each other, sticky and sweaty and out of breath. Harry just had enough in him to pull off his trousers and pants and put his glasses on the bedside table before casting a quick cleaning spell and settling back against Draco. He cuddled against Draco’s chest, their legs tangled together and Draco’s arms around him. They lay there in the soft silence, listening to their breaths slow and deepen as they drifted off to sleep.

-

He woke up sometime just before dawn. Draco’s arms cradled Harry against him as he stared up at the ceiling, strangely restless. Harry’s face was gentler when he slept – maybe it was the lack of glasses, or the way sleep erased the tell-tale signs of age, but he looked so unbelievably young. Draco pushed a few curls off of Harry’s forehead, fingertips ghosting over the scar.

He remembered then what he had realised when Harry had visited him all those years ago and asked him to come back to Hogwarts. The saviour of the wizarding world was just a boy – a man now, of course, but a boy when the world had needed a hero, a leader, a messiah. From what Harry had told him about his life before Hogwarts, he hadn’t had much of a childhood, and by the time he was eleven he was thrust into the spotlight and expected to work miracles. And yet Draco had been the one who needed to find himself. Who had disconnected. Who had needed to grow up.

He slipped out of the bed and pulled on his bathrobe before tiptoeing out of the room. He made his way down to the kitchen as quietly as he could. Sound travelled in the old house. So when he got into the kitchen and closed the door, he cast a small ‘ _Muffliato_ ’ before he let himself make any noise. He put the kettle on to boil, set a few pinches of chamomile and lavender in a tea strainer and set it over his favourite cup before curling up in the bay window overlooking the back garden to wait. A mixture of pre-dawn light and the glow from the streetlamps out front gave a strange hazy look to the garden, like looking at an old photograph. He hadn’t smoked in years, but he suddenly had the itch, the need for a cigarette. “Stupid,” he muttered to himself, holding his knees to his chest. He knew better now.

The kettle whistled. He poured the hot water into the cup and was about to sit back in his spot when the door opened. Startled, he spilled some of the hot water, barely avoiding getting any on his nice bathrobe.

“Merlin, Potter, knock next time,” Draco swore.

“I did,” said Harry. “But I suspect there’s a _muffliato_ charm.” He waved a hand through the doorway as if dusting away a cobweb, and the charm fell away. He was only wearing his trousers, barefoot and bare-chested as he leaned against the doorframe. He pushed his glasses up his nose, his green eyes warm behind the lenses. “Still have trouble sleeping, then?”

Draco shrugged. He tapped his fingers against the mug. “Your snoring didn’t help matters,” he retorted, looking up with a half-smile to let him know he was joking. Harry smiled back. Draco’s own smile faltered, and he looked down at his tea. “But yes. Still. Always,” he added, taking a sip. “Nothing ever really helps.”

Harry nodded. “Sometimes I wake up from a nightmare and can’t remember where I am,” he said. “It takes me ages to calm down again. Do you get those?”

Draco shrugged. “Sometimes. Not often. It’s more the thoughts that come, you know? The ones you can ignore in the daytime that just won’t shut up at night?”

Harry pressed his lips together as he nodded. “What do your voices say?” he asked, soft and gentle. Draco hated when he used that voice. He would do anything for Harry when he used that voice. Draco shook his head and took another sip of his tea, even though it was still too hot.

“When do you go back to Hogwarts?” he asked instead.

“This evening. I promised Ron and Hermione I’d get lunch with them. It’s the weekend, so I just need to get back to grade papers and set up for the week. You didn’t answer my question.”

“Does it matter?” Draco asked, setting his cup down on the kitchen counter. “You’ll go back to Hogwarts and you’ll never hear from me until the next reunion. This was just one night, Harry. It didn’t mean anything.”

Harry’s usually open-book face suddenly shuttered, growing cold and distant. Draco steeled himself, even as his stomach sank. This was for the best, he told himself. For both of them. A clean break.

“Really?” Harry asked, his voice barely above a whisper. “This didn’t mean anything?”

Draco swallowed hard. “Why should it?” he asked. “We have jobs. Lives. We can’t just give all that up because….” He gestured wildly and vaguely between them. “We have… commitments, and I just… can’t.”

Harry padded closer until he stood across the kitchen island from Draco. He leaned forward on his elbows, never taking his eyes off Draco. Merlin, why couldn’t he have put a shirt on? This would be so much easier if Harry had a shirt on.

“Why not?” Harry asked, jaw set but voice soft. “Why can’t you give this – give us, one more try? We can make it work, do long-distance if you want.”

Draco looked down at his pale bare feet. “Because it’s easier for me if I’m alone,” he said. He tried to make himself believe it.

Harry scoffed. “What gave you that idea?”

Draco glanced at him, defiant. “You haven’t been here. You have no idea what I’ve been through – ”

“What _you’ve_ been through?”

“ – what my life has been like these past few years! I’ve been perfectly happy here, I have my job, I know who I am here. Here, on my own, I don’t need you.”

Harry straightened up. He crossed his arms over his broad chest as he appraised Draco, his lips thin. He nodded curtly. “Right,” he said. “I see. You’re happy, are you?”

Draco tried his best to make the lie sound true – “Yes.” But the word still fell flat in the charged air between them. Harry looked away, biting his lower lip.

“So this was just one night, then?” he asked the stone floor.

“Like I said. Didn’t mean anything.”

Harry nodded again. Still not meeting Draco’s gaze, he said, “I’ll just… get dressed then and go. You’ll never have to be bothered by me again.”

“Right. Good. Okay then,” said Draco, even as everything inside him shattered. Harry looked up one last time. Draco wrapped his arms around his waist to hold himself together even as the broken look in Harry’s eyes made him want to drop to his knees and sob. No, please, he wanted to plead, don’t listen to me, don’t leave me, stay, for gods’ sake, stay. But instead, he turned away, stared out at the garden lit by the hazy city dawn. He heard Harry heave a long, heavy sigh.

“Goodbye, Draco.”

Draco stood there, long after the pad of Harry’s footsteps drifted away, and the crack of his Apparition faded into the early hours of the morning. He stood there, watching the pale sunrise creep into the garden, where the daffodils nodded their heads at him. He stood there, until the tears on his cheeks dried and each breath didn’t break his ribs apart. Then he turned away.

-

Later that day, sometime around one in the afternoon, after Draco had stripped the bed and showered, trying to rid himself of Harry’s scent, he sat down to his lunch of black coffee and a biscuit in the living room. He had barely lifted the biscuit to his mouth when Pansy burst through the fireplace.

“You absolute idiot!” she raged, stomping right up to where he sat on the antique sofa. “You masochistic, dick-headed arsehole!” She picked up a beaded throw cushion and began beating him over the head with it. He threw up his arms, but she only hit harder. “You bloody piece of –”

“Merlin, fuck, I get it, Pans, lay off! Ow! That hurts!”

“ _Does it_?” She hurled the cushion at him and stepped back, chest heaving. “I hope it does, because you just royally fucked everything up! Do you know how much time and effort Hermione and I put into planning that bloody reunion? We’ve been at it for months, trying to think of ways to trick you both into going. And right when we thought you had gotten it through your thick skulls, you go and pull this shit! What the hell were you thinking?”

Draco spluttered, trying to process what Pansy was saying. “You planned that?” he finally managed. Pansy rolled her eyes.

“Of course I did! Do you even know me at all?”

Draco had to admit, it was very in character. He stood, shaking his head. “Why?” he demanded. “Why do any of it in the first place?”

Pansy threw up her hands in exasperation. “Because you are fucking miserable, you prick!” she exclaimed. “When you’re not working, you’re home, by yourself, and when you’re not doing that, you’re getting drunk off your tits and having lousy one night stands that make you even more miserable than before! You’re not happy, Draco. You haven’t been in a really long time. So I’m sorry for trying, alright? But don’t you dare come crawling to me for help when you realise the best thing for you is about to go back to fucking Scotland thinking that the love of his life is better off without him.”

Draco opened and closed his mouth. As much as he wanted her to be wrong, he knew Pansy was, in this instance, perfectly in the right. He swallowed. “Well, shit,” he said. Pansy let out a huff, somewhere between a laugh and a repressed curse.

“Exactly. So what are you going to do about it, genius?”

Draco rubbed his face with his hands with a sigh. “It’s more complicated than you think, Pans,” he said in a low voice. “I… I lose myself when I’m with him. And I can’t do that again, Pansy, I just can’t.”

Pansy’s expression softened. She stepped in front of him, planting her small hands on his narrow shoulders. “Draco,” she said, “I’ve seen you grow up these last few years. I don’t think you can lose who you are again. You’ve fought too hard to find yourself in the first place. You’re not eighteen anymore. You are Draco fucking Malfoy, and nothing and no one is going to change that, not even Saint Potter. You hear me?”

Draco pulled her in for a tight hug. She hugged him back. She smelled like Chanel perfume and Floo powder. For a moment, he was back at his father’s funeral, holding her just like this as he tried to stay upright, even as his knees shook and all he wanted to do was crumple to the ground. She smelled the same as she had that day. She had been there for him through all these years, held his hand as flowers bloomed over his Dark Mark, eaten take-away on the floor of her flat after long shifts at the hospital, had even gone to a Muggle pharmacy with her to get a pregnancy test when she had a scare a few years back. He knew she was right. He was miserable.

She pulled away from him to press a hand to his cheek. She smiled. “Go,” she said. “Just talk to him. Honestly. None of this ‘better off alone’ bullshit, alright?” He nodded, and she patted his cheek. “Good. He’s at Hermione’s. And if I hear you pull any stunts, I will make the Dark Lord look like a schoolyard bully, you hear me?”

-

Ron looked ready to kill him when Draco stepped into their living room, ash still on his shoulders from the fireplace.

“How dare you show your face here, ferret!” Ron growled. Long gone was the lanky boy from school – tall and barrel-chested, Ron filled the room like a fiery-haired giant. Draco shrunk back from him. He held his hands up in surrender, even as he heard Hermione chastising, “Jesus, Ron, I asked Pansy to get him! Leave the poor man alone!”

Ron hesitated. “Oh,” he said. He seemed to shrink back to a normal size, his bearded face switching from menacing to suspicious as he looked Draco over. “Right, then.” He stepped back and went back to his wife, who was struggling to get up from the couch with her pregnant belly. He lifted her up, and she braced herself against him, like a ship coming in to port. Ron wrapped his arm around her shoulders and she smiled up at her husband for a moment before turning to Draco with an only slightly murderous look. As she allowed herself to be guided away, she revealed Harry sitting on the far-end of the couch, his eyes glued to the beat-up pine coffee table in front of him.

Ron and Hermione retreated to the kitchen with a small, “Call if you need us,” to Harry. Draco wrung his hands as he stood on the hearth rug. He could only really see Harry’s face in profile, but Draco noticed the skin around his eyes was red and puffy. Harry sniffed and tried to clear his throat. Draco took a deep, shaking breath.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. Harry didn’t look up. Draco made his feet move and all but dragged himself to the couch, sitting as far from Harry as he could. The couch was lower to the ground than he thought. He half-fell into the cushions, sinking deep into the corner even as he tried to right himself. In the corner of his eye, he thought he saw Harry’s lips quirk up in a smile.

“Merlin, this couch is a health hazard,” Draco muttered. Harry ducked his head to hide his expression, which Draco suspected was because he was holding back a laugh. Draco felt a smile flash briefly across his own face. Just as quickly, though, he felt his heart stutter and sink, and the smile was gone.

They sat in uncomfortable silence for too long. Draco’s throat had gone dry. All the words he had planned to say were gone. Instead, only three words ran on a loop in his head – _I am sorry, I am sorry, I am sorry_ ….

“Why did you come?” Harry asked, his voice hoarse.

“Pansy interrupted my lunch,” Draco replied. Harry let out a sound like a strangled cough. “You should have seen her! I was almost beat to death by a beaded pillow!”

At this, Harry snorted and shook his head. “Wish I could have been there to see it,” he mumbled. He turned to face Draco, one leg propped up on the couch. “Why are you here? Really?”

Draco swallowed hard. He had tried to think of what he wanted to say as Pansy pushed him into the Floo, but the minute he had seen Harry… Any words he had cobbled together went out of his mind entirely.

“I – The thing is… Do you really think I’m the love of your life?”

Harry looked stunned. “Who told you that?”

“Pansy. When she was beating me up she said that the best thing for me was going back to Hogwarts thinking the love of his life was better off without him.” Draco looked down at his hands, pressing himself as much into the corner of the couch as he could. Harry sucked in a breath. “I… I just needed to know… It’s stupid, I’m sorry, I should go.”

He made to try and struggle his way out of the couch. Harry’s hand shot out and held him back, his eyes wide and pleading.

“No, wait.” Harry hand lingered a moment on Draco’s knee. “Please.” He bit his lip and withdrew his hand, leaving Draco feeling suddenly cold without it. He looked down at his lap. “I… I don’t know what ‘love of my life’ even means… but I know that not a day, not a year has gone by that I haven’t been in love with you. But… if you don’t feel the same way, I understand.” Harry swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “I know that you… that last night meant nothing to you –”

“Potter, stop.”

Harry looked up.

Draco shifted to face Harry better. He reached out and put his hand on Harry’s knee, but unlike Harry, he kept his hand there. He took a deep breath to steady himself.

“I said that… to push you away. The truth is I – I have been going through a lot, these past ten years. It’s difficult to explain everything. But a lot of it, it’s been me trying to find myself.”

“You said. By the river,” Harry whispered. “You wanted to find out who you were without the war, and your parents, and…me.”

Draco nodded. He gave Harry’s knee a small squeeze. “It took years,” he continued softly. “I really did find myself in my work, but I guess… Pansy made me realise today that maybe I got lost in my work a bit as well. I pushed you away because I was so afraid that I would lose everything I built towards. I thought I was going to lose myself again. But maybe… I already have.” Draco sighed. None of what he wanted to say was coming out the way he wanted. “What I’m trying to say is… I do love you. I just don’t know how.”

“How?” Harry asked, brow furrowing.

“How to love you. Without losing myself.”

Harry frowned. He looked down at Draco’s hand on his knee, covered it with one of his own. His thumb rubbed the back of Draco’s hand gently as he mulled over Draco’s words. “Okay,” he said at last. “I… I don’t know what that means…but okay.” He looked back up at Draco. “What does… what does that mean?”

Draco bit his lip. “It means that I’m afraid,” he whispered, his voice breaking on the last word. Harry’s green eyes softened as he reached his free hand to cradle Draco’s cheek. Draco leaned into his touch, biting down harder on his lip to keep himself from falling apart again. “I just,” he choked out, “I don’t want to lose you. But I’m afraid of losing me, too.”

Harry let out a small, “oh.” He shuffled so that he knelt on the sofa next to Draco, his knees brushing Draco’s thigh, and held Draco’s face in his hands, making him look him in the eye. There was so much sweet affection there, so much blatant _love_ , that Draco wanted to look away, afraid of going blind by looking at something so bright. But Harry held him there.

“You won’t lose yourself, not with me,” Harry murmured, his thumbs brushing away the tears slipping down Draco’s cheeks. He gave Draco a watery smile. “Besides, we both know you’re too much of an arrogant arsehole for that,” he added with a chuckle. Draco laughed softly, but there was no mirth in it. Harry pressed his lips into a thin line at that. He continued, “I’m not asking you to uproot your life and come back to Hogwarts. It’s been ten years, but I know you better than that. We can try, can’t we? Don’t you want to try to be with me? For us?”

Draco nodded, even as his breath shook. “I do,” he whispered, “Gods, I really do. But how?”

“We can go slow,” Harry said. He smiled hopefully. “I can visit during the school holidays, you can visit on your days off, we can make it work.”

“But how long can we keep that up?” Draco demanded. Harry shrugged.

“As long as we need to,” he replied. “I’m not losing you again.”

Draco finally smiled. They leaned their foreheads against each other, Draco’s hands coming up to tangle in Harry’s curls. They breathed shakily, holding each other like that for several long moments.

“Okay,” Draco murmured at last. “Okay. Let’s try.”

Harry pulled a way slightly to look him in the eye, amazed.

“I don’t want to lose you again, either,” Draco said in answer to Harry’s unspoken question. “Plus, I’m pretty sure Pansy would kill me if I said no.”

Harry beamed. “Remind me to thank Pansy the next time I see her,” he said. Before Draco could tell him to not bother, that Pansy didn’t need any more ego-stroking, Harry had pulled him in for a kiss. It didn’t take long for the kiss to grow hungrier, more passionate, for Harry to crawl into Draco’s lap and tangling his own hands in Draco’s hair. Draco’s world was filled with him, cedar and black pepper, and all he could do was pull Harry in for more.

“Harry? Draco? How’s it – oh.” Hermione put a hand over her mouth to stifle the gasp at the sight of her best friend in a passionate embrace with Draco Malfoy. Ron came up behind her, and regretted it immediately.

“Oh gods! Oh my eyes!” he yelled, covering his eyes with his hands. “Merlin’s saggy tits, is there nothing sacred in this world anymore?”

Harry laughed. He leaned his forehead against Draco’s with a wide grin. Draco couldn’t help but chuckle as well.

“They’re just going to have to get used to it,” he murmured, pressing a chaste kiss to the corner of Harry’s grinning mouth. “Because I’m not going to let you go, I promise.”

Harrys grin softened. “I love you, Draco Malfoy,” he whispered against Draco’s mouth. Draco beamed.

“I love you, too.”


End file.
